


hold you close (wake up next to you)

by growlery



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Communication, Community: trope_bingo, Drunkenness, Friends With Benefits, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-15
Updated: 2016-04-15
Packaged: 2018-06-02 11:12:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6563986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/growlery/pseuds/growlery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Monty and Miller start hooking up and, weirdly, it's not weird or awkward at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hold you close (wake up next to you)

**Author's Note:**

> I have a million other things to do, so of course I managed to bash this out in three days. I don't even know. title's from pillowtalk by zayn.

It starts, as lots of things do, at a party. 

Well, technically, it starts after the party, because it's full of people Monty doesn't really know, and then also Miller, who finds Monty hiding in the kitchen with a bottle of bourbon he found in the fridge, gives him an assessing sort of look and then says, “This party sucks.”

Monty doesn’t really know Miller either, honestly. They were in the same psych class last semester, and Raven's dating Miller’s roommate, and they once had a long, involved argument about time travel, but they're not really what Monty would call close. Which is a shame, really, because Miller seems like exactly Monty's type, sharp and funny and sarcastic and, yeah, okay, really fucking hot. He's just wearing jeans and a dark shirt unbuttoned at the collar, and Monty can see the lines of his neck, the swell of muscles under fabric. It's a good look on him. 

Miller raises an eyebrow at Monty, and Monty abruptly realises he probably expected an answer, or at least some kind of acknowledgement of his existence. 

“I was promised good music and dancing,” Monty says, “I feel deeply betrayed on both counts. Bourbon?”

Miller nods, and Monty passes over the bottle. Miller takes a swig, tipping his head back, and, yeah, definitely Monty's type. Monty swallows, and when Miller glances over at him to pass the bottle back, Monty's still thinking about pressing Miller into the wall, about attaching his mouth to Miller’s neck, about the noises Miller might make if Monty bit down. 

Miller raises an eyebrow again. “How drunk are you,” he asks, and Monty shrugs. 

“Nowhere near enough to make this bearable. Which is to say, not even a little bit.”

"Same," Miller says. "Not really in the mood. I wasn't gonna come out at all, but Bellamy wanted the apartment to himself so he could get laid in privacy." Miller scowls. "I can't go home for _hours_."

Monty's chest goes tight, then just as suddenly eases, as what is probably the worst idea he's ever had slots into place in his head. "My apartment's currently empty," he says, before he can talk himself out of it, "since my roommate is part of said laying. Wanna get out of here?"

He says this last part quickly, too quickly, then snaps his mouth shut, already regretting opening it in the first place. But the worst thing Miller can do is say no, right? Monty has most of a bottle of alcohol to drown his embarrassment in if necessary. 

Miller turns, just slightly, and gives Monty the same assessing look as before, except his eyes are darker, his mouth slightly parted. Monty swallows. Miller's gaze flicks downwards, then back up, and then he nods. 

*

Monty doesn't live too far away, just a few blocks, and he's not sure why he expects the walk over to be awkward, but they talk about Back to the Future and messing with established timelines and it's just like hanging out with Raven, or Jasper, except for how Monty has never wanted to – or actually been about to – fuck either of them. 

It's still not awkward, though, not when Monty fumbles his key in the lock or when Miller laughs fondly at Monty's figurine collection or when they settle on Monty's bed and Monty tugs Miller down by the hem of his shirt. It's a bit awkward when Monty kisses him, but only in the way all first kisses are awkward. They don't quite get the angle right, and their noses bump, and Monty laughs against Miller's mouth and turns his head. 

Miller was holding Monty's shoulders, like he was steadying himself, but he slides one hand up to the nape of Monty's neck, the other down the sleeve of Monty's shirt, grasping at his arm. It's just a light pressure, but it makes Monty exhale against Miller's mouth, and Monty wants, _wants_. 

He pulls back, takes a moment to catch his breath, clear his whirling head. Miller sits back on his heels, watching him closely. 

“All right?” he says, and his voice is low. Monty swallows. 

“Yeah,” he says, “just- how do you want to do this?”

As a general rule, Monty likes to ask instead of leaving it to chance, whimsy, but especially when he's not sure what exactly this is. It feels like a one-night kinda thing, and if this is his one chance to have sex with Nathan Miller, he wants it to count. 

“Kissing's good.” Miller shrugs. “I like kissing.”

“That all you like? It's fine if it is.”

“There's a lot more I like,” Miller says. “Most of it involves more doing than talking, though.”

“Communication is important,” Monty tells him, but his smile gets in the way of his attempt to be stern. “Besides, I like hearing what people want from me.”

Miller's quiet for a second, then he says, “You liked me holding onto you, right?”

“Yeah,” Monty says. “You could be rougher, if you wanted.”

Miller licks his lips and nods. With a grin, Monty tugs Miller back in. He knows where to put his mouth, this time, and the press of their lips is smooth, intent. Miller tips himself forward, just a little, but when Monty goes with no resistance, he pushes Monty all the way back so he's lying on the bed, Miller on top of him. Miller's got himself braced on his elbows, keeping some distance between them. Monty doesn't want distance. Monty wants to be touching, everywhere. 

“This,” he says, “is so much better than a shitty party,” and Miller smirks down at him, but his face is soft. 

It's awkward again, briefly, when they get undressed; Monty's t-shirt comes off easily, but Miller's shirt has altogether too many buttons, even with Monty helping to undo them, and jeans were invented by some kind of demon whose sole responsibility is to make having sex as uncomfortable as possible. But then they're both naked, and Miller's sweeping dark eyes over Monty's body in a way that makes Monty's head feel light. Monty leans up to press a kiss to Miller's neck, the same spot he'd thought about earlier, and Miller exhales a noisy breath, hitches his hips like he didn't quite mean to do it. 

“That a thing you like?” Monty asks, and when Miller just nods, he leans up to do it again, wrap arms around Miller's back and pull him down. Monty scrapes teeth over skin, and Miller makes a soft noise that makes Monty feel dizzy. They're both hard, and Monty can feel one of them leaking over his belly, and he _wants_. 

He drags his hands all over Miller's body, touching everywhere he can reach, needing Miller to be closer, closer, but not quite sure how to make that happen. The two of them are just kind of rutting uselessly at each other, and it feels good and maddeningly not enough at the same time. 

“I want-” Miller starts, then turns his face into Monty's neck. It almost swallows the tiny, frustrated noise he makes, but he's close enough to Monty's ear that he catches it, feels the tickle of breath against his skin. 

Monty laughs, a bit breathless. “Go on,” he says, “you were doing so well.”

Eyes narrowing, Miller very deliberately rolls his hips down, sweet friction that has Monty gasping. Miller looks decidedly smug, but that's okay. Monty moves his hands to Miller's hips and shifts him, puts him where he needs him, meets Miller's next thrust in just the right place to make him groan. 

“Yeah,” Monty says, more a breath than a word. “Yeah, keep doing that.”

Miller does. Monty's orgasm sneaks up on him; one minute he's mouthing over the skin where Miller's neck meets his shoulder, the pressure in him building, building, and the next minute it crests, shorting out into waves of pleasure. It was probably a well-timed thrust, Monty thinks as he gasps, tries to come back to himself, or maybe it was the noise Miller made when Monty bit down. 

“You can keep going,” Monty says, his head still spinning, “or I can jerk you off, or go down on you, fuck, I just want to feel it-”

“Jesus, Monty,” Miller says, and Monty grins, says, “Communication.”

Miller leans down to kiss him, rough in a way that'll probably bruise. When he starts moving again, it's almost too much, rubbing over where Monty is still sensitive, and it makes pleasure-pain spark behind his eyes. Miller comes just a few more thrusts later, all over Monty's chest and a little bit on Monty's chin, which Monty thinks is kinda gross until Miller swipes his tongue over it, licks it clean. 

“You gonna do that to the rest of me?” Monty says, mostly a joke, and Miller snorts. 

He goes to retrieve the box of tissues Monty keeps by the bed, leaving Monty feeling cold, missing the weight of Miller's body pressing him down into the mattress. It isn't long before Miller's back, carefully wiping Monty's chest clean, and it does feel good to be a little less sticky. Monty's going to tell Miller this, probably make some kind of terrible sex joke that'd make Miller roll his eyes at Monty, but Miller's holding himself a little apart from Monty again, like he isn't sure what's supposed to happen next. 

“So you can't go home yet, right?” Monty says, and Miller nods. “You can crash here if you like. I have a sofa, or, you know. A bed, if you're cool with cuddling, because it's pretty impossible to share a bed with me and not get cuddled. Naked or otherwise, I can put clothes back on if that'd be better.”

“Cuddling might be better than sex,” Miller says, “naked or otherwise.”

Monty grins. “A man after my own heart,” he says, “excellent.”

He turns onto his side, and Miller settles into the curve of his body, slings an arm around Monty's waist and strokes over his back. Monty still kind of wants to kiss him, just his mouth gentle on Miller's, but he's not sure that would be okay, doesn't think he could form the words to ask. 

It's still not as weird as he thinks it probably should be. Monty doesn't have a lot of experience with this kind of thing, but he's hooked up enough that he knows that it starts to get uncomfortable once you've got past the actual hookup part. He's just kind of comfortable, though, and he thinks he could lie here with Miller like this for hours if his eyelids weren't already drooping, if he didn't have class at nine am the next morning. 

So maybe it should be weird, but it just feels good, nice, so Monty's not going to worry himself. 

*

It turns out Miller also has a nine am class, which Monty discovers because the alarm on Miller's phone goes off at seven, yanking Monty out of a dream he was pretty sure involved DeLoreans in some important capacity. 

“What the fuck,” he says, with feeling, as Miller turns it off. “Who needs two hours to get to class, seriously, _what the fuck_.”

“People who shower,” Miller says, not looking up from where he's thumbing through his phone. He's way too perky for this time of the morning, which Monty would be more surprised by – Miller doesn't exactly strike Monty as a morning person – if he weren't still half-asleep. “People who eat breakfast. People who go running.”

“Literally none of those things are worth sacrificing sleep for,” Monty says, and Miller looks up to smirk at him. 

“People who have morning sex,” he says, and Monty's never really seen the appeal before – sleep is important, okay – but the way Miller's looking at him makes him swallow.

“Still not convinced,” he says, and Miller says, “Let me convince you, then,” and moves to settle himself between Monty's legs. He looks up at Monty, eyes dark, tongue darting out to wet his lips, and Monty is so suddenly wide awake it almost hurts. 

“Yeah,” he breathes, and Miller goes down. 

He takes Monty's dick into his mouth slowly, licking around the head as he sinks down, and Monty stutters out a moan. He's half hard already, what with just having woken up and just having woken up next to Miller, and it doesn't take long for Miller to get him all the way there. Miller's got his hand on him, too, and he moves it up every time his mouth goes down, dragging wetness back with it, and it's good and messy and _good_. 

After, Miller wipes his mouth, licks his lips where come was starting to dribble down to his chin. “Convinced?” he says, his voice a bit rough, and Monty pretends to think for a second. 

“I don't know,” he says, “you might have to do it again.”

Monty expects a sarcastic retort, or even Miller just rolling his eyes at him. Instead, Miller glances away. “Sure,” he says, “if you want. This was fun.”

“Yeah,” Monty says, because it was, and if it can be fun on a regular basis, well, even better. “Not over yet, though.” He gestures at Miller's dick. “Still got that to take care of.”

“Just for the record,” Miller says, “that sounds super ominous,” but he comes easily when Monty tugs him over, reaches down between them to jerk Miller off. He comes after a few hard strokes, all over Monty's hand, and Monty cleans it off with a tissue. 

“Now it's over,” Monty says, and Miller snorts, which sounds oddly fond, coming from him. Monty smiles at him. “Shower or breakfast? Pick one. We don't really have time for both, and running is abso-fucking-lutely out of the question.”

“Even if we share a shower?” Miller says, eyebrows raised, and that's definitely a mental image Monty wants to spend more time with, fuck. 

“Especially then,” Monty says. “Does that ever actually take less time than two showers combined?”

Miller shrugs. “Breakfast, then,” he says. “Food's important.”

He makes them both scrambled eggs, which Monty's pretty sure he meant to be fried but he fucks it up somewhere in the middle, swears under his breath in a way that makes Monty laugh from where he's watching from his perch on the counter, and they eat it right out of the saucepan. 

When they're done and dressed and Monty has brushed his teeth and Miller has stolen some mouthwash and toothpaste to gargle, they walk to class together. Their elbows brush, and it's still not weird, so Monty decides to stop feeling like it should be. 

*

The next time it happens is also at a party. 

Except it's not really a party, more a casual get together at Bellamy and Miller’s that involves the entirety of their sprawling friendship group and pizza and rolling Mario Kart marathons. Bellamy and Miller have one tiny sofa and a whole lot of floor space, so everyone's mostly sitting on the ground, except for Bellamy and Raven, who claimed the sofa before anyone else got there. Monty would normally sit by them, or Monroe, or Harper, but Miller looks up at him when he arrives, flicks a look at the space next to him on the floor, and Monty doesn't even think before moving to take it. They've been texting, and Monty waved when he saw Miller at the library the other day, but they haven't been physically close since they hooked up. Monty hadn't noticed how much he missed it. 

If anyone notices they're being unusually friendly, no one comments on it. It's not like they're doing anything but sitting next to each other, anyway. Their thighs might be close enough that Monty can feel the heat of Miller through his jeans, and Miller might keep brushing against Monty's arm when he moves, but for all that it's making Monty's skin feel hot and tight, it's not a _thing_. 

At least that's what he thinks until he looks up and catches Miller's heavy gaze on him. Monty swallows. Miller raises his eyebrows, a question, and Monty's not sure exactly what he's asking, but he nods, anyway. In the next second, Miller's on his feet, retreating from the group of people filling the living room. Nobody pays him much attention. At the door to his room, Miller glances back at Monty, and Monty understands, and Monty swallows again. He realises, despite what they'd said, that he never really believed what happened was more than a one-night kinda thing, that he never really thought he'd get to have this again. What floods him is something like relief, and something else he doesn't examine too closely. 

He gives it a minute, two, counts the seconds off in his head, and then gets up to follow Miller. Nobody notices him leave, either. 

The second the door's closed behind him, Miller backs him against it, hands on Monty's hips and mouth on Monty's mouth. It's a quick, ravenous thing, full of teeth, and then Miller's stepping back, breathing hard. 

“Hello to you too,” Monty says, and Miller rolls his eyes. “You know if we have sex, everyone will know, right?”

“Who said we're having sex?”

Monty shrugs. “I figured it was implied,” he says, “but if that was all you wanted,” and turns to leave. 

Miller catches his wrist. His grip is firm, but not so tight that Monty couldn't get out of it if he wanted. 

“I told you you could be rougher,” Monty says, and Miller swears under his breath. Monty grins. “You could grab my other wrist, too, keep them above my head.”

“Not here,” Miller says. 

Still holding onto Monty's wrist, Miller steers him around to the wall by his bed, which is shared with one of the rooms that isn't the living room. He pulls both of Monty's wrists up, pinning him to the wall with his grip. 

“What do you want me to do,” Miller says, his voice going low, “now that I've got you here?”

“Anything,” Monty says, and means it. This, straining in Miller's grip, feeling the spots of pain where bruises will later bloom, is what he needs. “Fuck, Miller. Whatever you want.”

Miller kisses him, and it's softer than before, in sharp contrast to the way he's holding Monty's arms. It's almost too soft, and Monty strains to get closer to him, deepen the kiss, but Miller pulls himself back, smirking when Monty chases his mouth. 

“You'll have to be quiet,” Miller says. “Can you do that, or do you need me to make you?”

“I'd like you to,” Monty says, and Miller shakes his head, but not like he disapproves, more like he's not sure what else he expected Monty to say. 

Miller doesn't kiss him again straightaway; he tips his forehead forward to rest against Monty's while he gets his jeans undone, pulling them down with Monty's boxers. With the way they're standing, Miller can't pull them all the way down, but he doesn't seem to want to, and Monty doesn't really mind them pooling around his thighs. 

He minds even less when Miller curls his hand around Monty's dick. He hisses a breath that Miller moves to swallow, which becomes a groan, long and low, when Miller starts to move his hand. Miller bites Monty's lip, and if it was supposed to be a rebuke, a reminder that all their mutual friends are in the living room, it doesn't work. The pain blooms, and Monty's head goes staticky, and he makes soft, helpless noises against Miller's mouth. 

“Seriously,” Miller says, and there's something like a laugh in his voice, but also something a bit more wrecked, like he's the one being touched like this. “You can't stay fucking quiet.”

“You like it,” Monty says, and steals a kiss that's all teeth for a moment until Miller moves back. 

“Seriously,” Miller repeats, and seals his mouth over Monty's before he moves his hand again. 

Later, Monty comes out of Miller's room with a book that he pretends to be deeply interested in, and retakes his position in the group without anyone mentioning that he and Miller disappeared. It probably has less to do with Monty being at all sneaky and a lot more to do with the fact that Monroe apparently picked Rainbow Road for her round and everyone's preoccupied with yelling about how she's a fucking sadist, yeah, but no, Bellamy, you can't tag your girlfriend in to win a race for you, you're in it 'til the bitter end. 

Miller's still in his room. He shook his head when Monty reached to touch him, said Monty should leave now so it looked less suspicious, so Monty has a pretty good idea of what he's gonna spend the next few minutes doing. It makes it pretty hard to even pretend to concentrate on the book, honestly, but he soldiers on through until he hears Miller's door open. He doesn't look up when Miller sits down next to him, but he smiles, small, when he feels Miller nudge his foot. 

*

The next time happens because Monty has to return Miller's book, which he somehow made time to actually finish between his mountain of assignments. Miller takes it from his hands and kisses him, and when they're lying on his bed, after, Miller says, "You don't need an excuse, you know."

Monty turns his head to look at Miller. His stubble's getting thick, and Monty presses instinctive fingers to it, digging into the skin. 

"It wasn't an excuse," Monty says. "I did need to give you your book back. This was just a happy and not unexpected bonus."

Miller makes a frustrated noise. Monty's not sure what he said wrong, but he withdraws his hand, makes himself focus so he can try and fix it. 

"You don't need an excuse," Miller repeats, but there's something different in his voice, now. "You can just ask. When you want something. Text me, or whatever, and we'll figure something out."

Monty narrows his eyes. "You want me to, like, booty call you?" 

Miller exhales slowly. "Sure," he says. 

"Okay," Monty says, moving his fingers back to stroke Miller's beard. "Well, same, then. If you ever want."

Miller closes his eyes, leans his head into Monty’s touch. He looks tired, in a sort of bone deep way that Monty gets. He drags his nails slowly down Miller's neck, digging in when he reaches bare skin, and Miller hisses. Monty wonders what kind of noise Miller would make if Monty were scraping a bruise, and swallows. 

Miller looks like he can guess what Monty's thinking. He licks his lips, and Monty has to lean forward, press his mouth along the places Miller made wet. 

*

The next time- well, Monty kinda stops counting. 

They fuck in Miller's bed and they fuck in Monty's; they fuck in Monty's shower, too, and it takes twice as long as it would by himself, and Monty wants to start every day like this. They even fuck on Miller's sofa, and have barely struggled back into their clothes when Bellamy comes in from work. Sometimes, they just play video games and talk about books. It turns out they both want quite a lot. 

*

Harper drags everyone out to her favourite gay bar for her birthday, after pre-drinks with too many people squashed in her dorm room. Monty's already pretty drunk by the time they arrive, and somebody gets birthday shots, and then he's abruptly _really_ drunk, like that tipped over his inner glass and now he's overflowing. 

"That metaphor made more sense in my head," he explains to Miller, who he was explaining the metaphor to, who is for some reason hanging around the bar with Monty even though people keep obviously checking him out. He wonders if he should offer to, like, wingman or something, but Monty's probably not in any state to be actually helpful. Besides, Miller would ask, if he wanted. 

"I got it," Miller says, though he looks amused at Monty's expense. Maybe that's why he's still here, when everyone else is lost somewhere vaguely in the crowd of people. Miller's an asshole. 

Harper emerges from the crowd, suddenly, and casts her gaze around until it lands on the two of them. She lights up. 

"Come dance with me," she yells, and, well, he was thinking about joining the crowd, anyway, and it is Harper's birthday. Monty lets himself be tugged, and notices Miller following them. Harper notices too, and winks at Monty. Their friends have definitely figured out what's going on between them, but it's not really like they're trying to hide it, unless they happen to be having sex in uncomfortably close vicinity to one or more of them. But that’s just considerate. 

The three of them dance for a song or two, pushing out a space for themselves amongst everyone else, but then Harper smacks kisses on both of their cheeks and wanders off to find someone else to dance with. With it just the two of them, they end up hemmed in on all sides, bodies pressed close. Monty doesn't mind. He likes being this close to Miller, his eyes flashing in the lights, his face shadowed and vaguely ethereal-looking. 

Monty kisses him, and it's supposed to be quick, just because he can, but Miller puts his hands on Monty's hips and Monty wants to stay here, not even dancing, just caught between Miller's hands. 

And then the song changes, and it's Monty's _favourite_ , and he dances out of Miller's grip, grinning in delight. Of course, it's more upbeat than the previous songs, and everyone moves a little faster, a little less intent. They get separated, and it's fine. It's not like they're here together. 

Monty dances by himself and with a bunch of very attractive people, one of whom gets close enough to grip Monty's arms the way he likes. If Monty were more sober, he might try something, but as it is he's still overflowing, spilling his drunkenness all over the dance floor. It's getting worse, not better, though that might be the spinning. Not good for his head. 

He cuts a path through the crowd on the next song, collapses out of their hold and manages to find a free patch of wall to lean against. He wants to sit, really, but all the booths are taken, and the wall's keeping him solid, at least, so it'll do. 

He closes his eyes, just briefly, but when he opens them again, he spots Miller in the crowd, frowning. 

"Miller!" he yells, and Miller's head turns, spots Monty and his patch of wall. The frown clears a little. 

Miller winds his way through the crowd, stops in front of Monty. "You okay?" he asks. 

Monty shrugs. "Drunk," he says, which isn't a no. The room's still spinning, and he's not sure it's going to stop. He should be enjoying it, but it's just making him dizzy. 

The frown's back. Monty doesn't like to see it, and likes even less that he might be the cause of it. He doesn't want Miller to- to think he's annoying, or boring, or whatever. That would suck. 

"Wait here," he says, and vanishes back into the crowd. He's back almost immediately, towing Harper with him. 

"You," she tells Monty, "are super drunk. You look like you're gonna fall over. Go home."

"I don't wanna miss your birthday," Monty says, even though just the mention of leaving makes the way his head’s still spinning feel a little more bearable. 

"It's past midnight," Harper says. "Not my birthday any more." She turns to Miller. "Get him home safe, yeah?"

Miller nods. Harper hugs him, and then moves to hug Monty, who does feel a little like he might fall over when he loses the support of the wall. 

"I'm sorry I got so drunk," he says, and Harper squeezes him. 

"Happens," she says. "Don't worry about it."

The outside is cold and quiet, and both these things shock Monty's skin, giving him a brief moment of sobriety. 

"I can get myself home," he says to Miller. "You don't have to take me."

"Shut up," Miller says, and they wait for a cab in silence. 

Monty thinks he might fall asleep in the cab, head dropped to Miller's shoulder, because the next think he's aware of is Miller bundling him out of it, saying, "Come on, come on."

Monty squints at the building they've stopped in front of. "This isn't my apartment," he says, and Miller sighs. 

"It's mine," he says, and starts guiding Monty inside.

"Oh." Monty blinks. Of course. He should really have recognised it, the amount of times he’s been over, now. "Are we having sex?"

"Don't be a dick," Miller says, and Monty thinks his voice is way too harsh for what is, in Monty's opinion, a perfectly reasonable question. Then again, this is a drunk Monty's opinion, and he's pretty sure Miller is a lot more sober than he is. He should probably trust Miller. 

"Sorry," he says, because it feels like the right thing to say. And then, because Monty is drunk, and declarations of love are easy when you're drunk, he says, "You're great, you know that?"

"I'm an asshole," Miller corrects. "As you’ve so often said."

"Not mutually exclusive," Monty says, and Miller's grip on him loosens. 

"A ringing endorsement," Miller mutters, "thanks," and Monty's fucked it up again, said the wrong thing, somehow. He opens his mouth to try and fix it, but then they're in Miller's apartment, in Miller's room, and Monty loses the thread of the thought in how much he wants to be horizontal. 

He flops on the bed, kicking off his shoes, but he doesn't bother undressing himself any more. He buries himself under the blankets, makes a contented noise, and hears Miller's soft laughter behind him. Maybe Monty hasn't properly fucked it up, then. 

Miller slides into bed a few minutes later, still wearing his shirt but not his jeans. Monty thinks about joining him, but undressing requires movement, and he just wants to wake up and be sober, this weird head space cleared like pressing a reset button. 

"You're great," Monty tells him, because he's pretty sure Miller didn't understand, before. Miller makes that same soft laughter. "Seriously. I'm, like, super glad we started fucking, because I didn't really know you before-" He pauses, here, for Miller to make a joke about Monty now knowing him in the Biblical sense, but he's just watching Monty. Monty is far too drunk to guess what the look on his face means. "I'm just glad we're friends now, is what I’m saying. And that I get to see you naked a lot, because you're really hot."

"Go to sleep," Miller says, but he definitely sounds fond, not annoyed, so Monty burrows into him instead of the blankets and closes his eyes. 

*

Monty wakes up with much less of a headache than he really deserves, but feeling nauseous enough that it sends him stumbling to the bathroom to hang his head over the toilet for a while. When he hasn't thrown up in what his phone tells him is over ten minutes, he picks himself back up, washes out his mouth and heads back to Miller's room. 

Miller's awake, sitting up in bed, when Monty pushes the door open. He doesn't look up as Monty approaches. 

"I thought you'd left," he says. He's still not looking at Monty. 

"Just getting acquainted with your toilet," Monty says. "We're on first name terms now. Barbara knows all my secrets, but she'd never tell."

Miller looks up and grins, and Monty hadn't realised how tense he was until he feels it unravel. "I'm sure I can get her to talk."

Monty comes to sit on the edge of Miller’s bed, and has a brief flash of a memory, remembered content at the sight of a familiar bed. He grimaces. Now it's him who can't meet Miller's eyes. 

"I'm sorry about yesterday," Monty says, in a rush. "You shouldn't have had to take care of me, especially when I kept upsetting you."

"It's fine," Miller says. "It's not your fault."

Monty bites his lip. "It is. I keep saying the wrong thing. I'm sorry."

"You're fine," Miller says, but Monty can't believe him when he sounds so tired. "You're great."

" _You're_ great," Monty says, remembering his own words as he hears them echoed back to him. He remembers, too, how much more they had seemed to mean, then, what they’d meant inside Monty's head. 

Miller kisses him, and even though Monty gets the distinct impression he's being kissed as a distraction tactic, or as a way to get him to stop talking, Monty kisses Miller back. It's super effective, what can he say. 

Monty manages to collect himself after a few minutes, though. He pulls himself back enough to ask, "Is this weird?"

Miller's face is blank. "Is it weird for you?"

"No," Monty says truthfully, "but it feels like it might be for you, which would suck." Miller's face is still blank, and Monty sighs. "I remember you getting upset when I asked if you'd taken me to your apartment so we could have sex."

"Because you were drunk."

"So were you," Monty points out, "and we've fucked when we were drunk before."

"You were _really_ drunk," Miller says, which Monty has to acknowledge is true. But he still doesn't think that's it. Miller didn't just say no, which would be fine, he got upset, which isn't. "So yeah. It was weird then. But it's not weird, like, generally. It's fine."

"Just fine?" Monty says, and he grins, leaving it open for a joke again, but Miller still doesn't take it. "Hey. You have to tell me, you know. When you want something."

"What if what I want," Miller says, "is to date you?"

Monty blinks. Miller's looking studiously at some point beyond Monty's shoulder. 

"Is it?" Monty asks softly, and Miller shrugs. 

"If it was," Miller says, "would _that_ make it weird for you?"

Monty thinks about it for a second, because he has to be sure. "No," he says. "I think I'd like that too."

"You think?"

Monty shrugs. "Well, I can't be sure. I don't know what I'm letting myself in for. Dating's a pretty vague concept, like, are you talking old-fashioned courtship, do we have to stop having sex until we've had at least three dates, is it an exclusive kind of thing or can we see other people, and what about the level of non-sexual intimacy you want us to-"

"Jesus, you say I'm an asshole," Miller says, but he's looking at Monty, right in the eyes, and he looks like he's trying very hard not to smile.

"It's important to talk about this stuff," Monty says. He definitely, definitely fails to sound stern.

Miller takes Monty's hand, threads their fingers together. "That a thing you like?" he asks, and Monty smiles at him, strokes fingers over Miller's skin, and says, "Yeah."


End file.
